Bar Brawl
by flah7
Summary: Beckett involves Sheppard's team in a bar fight
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Bar Brawl SGA

**Author:** Heatherf

**Disclaimers**: Not mine, no money made etc

**Warning 1:** English, grammar, spelling and whatever else.

**Warning 2:** No plot (that I could come up with)

**Thanks:** Mitzi beta'd (she normally does with Meg) Meg T. is out of town.

Any problems, complaints and the such, type them out and then delete them before you send them (you'll feel better and so will I.)

**Characters:** Team fic, centered on Beckett

Posting this now before I watch Hive and Epiphany. No spoilers that way.

**Summary:** There is a bar brawl but under mitigating circumstances.

It's complete. It's being parted out because---no good reason but it's what Meg T recommends. Blame her. I do.

12/01/05

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**Part 1**

John Sheppard leaned carefully against the infirmary wall of the 'dirty' surgery room. He gently crossed his arms over his chest. He wanted to sigh but feared his bruised ribs would protest. He wanted to lean his head against the wall but his fractured collar bone had other ideas.

As it was, he leaned both shoulders against the wall welcoming the thrumming pain as the linear bruises that spread crossed his shoulders took more of his weight. He was told he had quite a startling array of deep colors flooding out from the original points of contact.

It was amazing how barroom chairs looked the same across different galaxies and apparently inflicted similar damages to the human body.

Rodney had commented on the near parallel appearance of the deep maroon and blue bruises, however, Rodney had his proverbial bell rung and so his ability to see straight was somewhat questionable. As far as John could tell his bruises might have been running tangential. Not that it really mattered. They hurt all the same. In fact, they hurt enough that he wondered if something was truly broken and imaging had missed it.

He would wait a night and see if things didn't get better. If they didn't, then he would wait until Biro had a free moment or Beckett had his tooth fixed.

It was the damn tooth that started everything.

Sheppard watched without much concern as Beckett bent a sluggish leg, resting the sole of his sneaker on the foot of the dental chair. He had been moving with increasing frequency but without much motivation or coordinated intent. Like the few times in the last hour, the muscles in his leg gave out and Sheppard watched as the leg slipped and straightened nearly falling off the side of the chair. He watched as Beckett tried to bend it again, to no avail.

Carson must have given up on moving the leg because it stopped moving, but the doctor's cut and bruised hand lifted haphazardly a few inches and then stopped. A semi fist was formed but, like the leg, the muscles of the arm and hand stopped working in a coordinated effort and the hand fell back across his midsection next to its other battled scarred mate.

The movement had caught Dr. Biro's eye and she had turned her attention from the head of her patient to his hand and leg. Even with her surgical mask on, clear plastic eye shield, surgical blue hat and gown, Sheppard was pretty sure he'd recognize the pathologist just about anywhere. She had that mousey, geeky appearance that somehow conveyed quite clearly, 'don't bother me'. Of course, knowing that she cut up dead people for a living and examined them under a microscope also helped add to her girlish charm.

It had been Biro that patched Sheppard back together when his team and Beckett stumbled through the gate sporting various cuts, abrasions, lacerations and infrequent yet painful slight fractures.

It had been a heck of a brawl and it was almost worth all the aches and pain he now suffered. It was kind of cathartic to go ten rounds with some hulking farmers and woodsmen in a sconce lit stone walled tavern. The team was lucky to have walked away with mere bruises and aches. It was fortunate that the combatants were more interested in blowing off steam than killing one another.

It seemed universal in the Pegasus galaxy that it was better to save the killing for the Wraith and not each other, excluding the Genii of course. The Genii and their ostracized ring leader Koyla were in a sick sect all their own. Rumor had it Koyla owned a cow. Sheppard shuttered at the thought. Poor creature.

Once back in the infirmary, McKay had refused to let Biro touch him fearing that his exam would be more like a 'pre-autopsy' and wanted to avoid anything that would some day lead him to be laying flat out with a blue/grey complexion on a stainless steel metal table with drains on either end. He accused Biro of trolling for business. She retorted that even as a pathologist she had standards, and should McKay end up on one of her slabs she'd be sure to call in an expert on Necropsies. McKay had snarled and mumbled something unintelligible.

He insisted that Beckett suture his forehead laceration, even though the CMO seemed to be having trouble seeing out of both eyes himself. In the end, Beckett had stitched McKay's forehead laceration closed, dropped a bag of ice into Rodney's hand and then lifted both to McKay's swollen left eye and cheek and told him to hold it there. A hairline fracture to McKay's zygomatic arch left the astrophysicist moaning in dire pain and blaming the Scot for all the maladies that had befallen him that night.

McKay was not far from wrong, but no one was going to willingly jump on the blame bandwagon just yet. The physician was, after all, still standing, walking upright and still had a frightful tooth ache. In the course of just a few hours though, he had managed to drag SGA-1 and the regular inhabitants of some off world tavern into his little world of throbbing misery.

It was said misery loved company, and ever since Dr. Kavanaugh had accidentally snapped one of Dr. Beckett's back molars in half only 18 days ago, it seemed everyone was suffering for it.

So when Rodney blamed Beckett for his fractured cheek bone and stitches the others kept quiet and made some distance between themselves and the astrophysicist.

No one wanted to become unfortunate collateral damage.

Beckett had only nodded in agreement and then simply shuffled into his office, closed his door and lay his head down on his desk, pushing the laptop and flats of slides out of his way and closed his eyes.

Earlier imaging of his skull and mandible proved he had escaped any type head trauma or fracture. It seemed truculent Scotsmen raised by their mothers were a tough lot. His tooth, however, was stubbornly still in place and more inflamed than ever before.

No one dared bother the man.

Ronon and Teyla both had their bruises looked at, poked and prodded, which they took with sickening stoicism and were deemed 'fine'. The Pegasus Galaxy's own home grown warriors smiled smugly at their battle ready fitness and chuckled while the various Lanteans found themselves being injected, numbed, sutured and wrapped.

It seemed the Athosian and Runner could handle a bar room brawl better than most.

Sheppard did take some satisfaction in knowing that his team and Beckett were able to walk away from the tavern while its own regulars were sprawled amongst broken furniture, shattered glass and spilled ale. It was a shame they had to leave the roaring fire that sat in the center of the room in a stone circular pit with a cast iron metal stew pot hanging over its flames. It was almost as difficult to leave the warmth and soft light created by the kerosene fed flames within wrought iron wall sconces as it was the cook fire. Sheppard had not really wanted to venture back out into the blustery raw wind that scoured the land in the heavy darkness of a moonless night. He certainly didn't want to listen to McKay belly ache and Beckett groan with each foot placement as they trudged 2.4 miles back to the gate.

The sudden drizzle that patted the ground only seemed right in an unjust universe. Without much coercion or forced orders, they left the marred quaint little tavern and headed into the raw, drizzling evening looking forward to a long walk on short patience.

They didn't have much choice but to leave the fire heated tavern. Bodies were left sprawled around the wood floored room, blood from noses and split lips mingled freely with spilled hops and ale. Food was scattered and spilled next to and around over turned tables and smashed chairs. Incoherent groans occasionally rumbled up from the wood pegged floor but it seemed only the Lanteans and the bar keep were able to keep their feet.

It was with some consternation that Sheppard herded his people out the door, offering a 'what can I do' smile to the barkeep before shutting the door behind himself and following his team back to the gate.

He wasn't feeling too gleeful as the group limped, weaved and berated each other on their two mile hike, through the dark, on a wooded lane that slowly turned to thick mud. McKay held his face and complained bitterly about the blinding pain that seared his cheek. Sheppard had held his ribs, careful not jar his upper body in a futile hope to protect his collar bone from any undue movement or uneven motion. It didn't matter none, it seemed as if every bone in his body was attached to his collar bone.

Beckett shuffled near the rear of the group, head still tilted toward his right shoulder with a little more of a list than had previously been present. He seemed hell bent on protecting his tooth to the best of his ability. Of course, the protective stance had been getting increasingly more pronounced as the days dragged by and the broken tooth remained unattended with nerves startling raw and stubbornly alive. At least now he had a bruise on that side of his face again. It would act to give a little visual aide to his discomfort, not that anyone on Atlantis didn't already know that the CMO had a busted tooth that throbbed with every beat of his heart and spiked with pain with every inhale.

The man was miserable and he was successfully dragging everyone down with him.

Sheppard had to concede when the tooth was first broken, Beckett had tried to be civil, tried to ignore the sharp spiking pain but a short week of incessant, unrelenting ache slowly broke down his benevolent personality and his patience slowly started evaporating. By the end of the first week, Biro and the silent tall doctor were the doctors of choice. No one thought to take the last cup of hot water in the cafeteria without refilling the pot, for fear of invoking the wrath of one overtired, short fused Scotsman.

If one thing good came out of the fight, it was this single moment--- Sheppard stood in the dirty surgery room watching Biro and a visiting doctor work on the CMO's broken tooth. The colonel watched as Beckett once again haphazardly lifted his right foot and placed it on the chair's pad and kept it there for a bit but then relaxed and let the leg straighten out. The doctor's upper shoulders and head were hidden from view by Drs Mitchell DDS and Biro.

Biro, with gloved hands, was assisting the oral surgeon brought in by the Daedalus. On this evening the duo set out to fix the broken upper molar that had plagued Beckett and subsequently all of Atlantis for nearly three weeks.

Sheppard didn't understand the fear and apprehension that drove Beckett in avoiding letting anyone near his tooth though the man himself had tried to pull the damn thing out with a pair of hemostats.

Sheppard would have sold McKay off to the highest bidder just to have seen Beckett with hemostats in his mouth trying to wiggle out a healthy, albeit broken, tooth with multiple roots. Hitting the raw nerve with metal, it was reported, sent the CMO into a dancing fit of heebeejeebbies and exquisite pain which was punctuated by fanciful, imaginative string of expletives that had the marines trying to memorize them. Sheppard would have loved to have been a fly on the wall to see Beckett with his medical version of needle nose pliers with built-in vice grip digging at his tooth.

Sheppard did however, respect the raw power that Beckett exhibited this very night when he nearly single handedly took on a whole tavern and its citizens.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

The colonel sighed and grimaced. His ribs ached, reminding him never to sigh again or at least for as long as deep muscle bruising swelled and spasmed his intercostals muscles.

Sheppard watched as Biro turned her attention back to her patient and to assisting Dr. Mitchell, DDS oral surgeon with an ego bigger than McKay himself. Sheppard never thought he'd ever be able to say it. But after meeting Mitchell he realized that McKay's gigantic sized ego paled in comparison to the arrogant Everest sized ego of one Tod Mitchell, DDS.

McKay earned his ego, the man was rarely wrong, and was quite pleased to remind everyone of that fact. When he did make mistakes, even they were grandiose and beyond what a normal person would be capable. McKay was spectacular in his brilliance, his confidence and universal, diffuse disdain of all those not as intelligent as himself. McKay played favorites with no one and insulted everyone equally and with the same scathing intelligent wit. No one was spared his sharp sarcasm or brutal intelligence. The man had saved Atlantis multiple times. He orchestrated the teams, assigned the people and controlled the teaming masses of type A personalities with the efficiency of Genghis Kahn. He went unmatched with success in the sciences at Atlantis. He conducted the people below him with cool and apparently detached efficiency.

Only those closest to him realized that McKay protected his people rabidly. Their very presence on Atlantis put them in danger. Their wild schemes to defeat menacing foes threatened their lives and McKay and his people did the impossible time and time again with their backs exposed to the dangers that rushed down upon them all. McKay was raw brilliance, all sharp edges, cold retorts and unfriendly grimaces, but he was also brilliantly aware that lives depended on him. He felt every loss of every scientist as a personal blow; a personal failure; as a flaw in himself.

Sheppard feared that maybe one day, one too many scientists would die and McKay would stop functioning with his wild abandon; that he would become overtly cautious thus hesitant. And hesitancy would kill more lives than steadfast commitments.

Mitchell on the other hand was bluster and noise and had nothing concrete to show for it. At least not yet. Tonight was his chance to prove to the rest of Atlantis that he was as good as he bragged.

Sheppard counted his blessings that Biro had the foresight to sedate Beckett somewhat to avoid having the Scot take offense to anything the Northern Californian might do or say. The last thing anyone needed was Beckett going all Braveheart on them again especially in Atlantis. Once an evening was enough. Hell once ever, was plenty.

The damnable Scot had his limits and when his buttons were pushed in the right sequence he became a force to be reckoned with. Hell, Scotsmen with tooth aches should come with warning sirens; maybe something akin to what was used on some coasts for tsunamis or in the Midwest for Tornadoes or even Nuclear Power plants.

Sheppard shook his head and closed his eyes as his collar bone sent fierce lancing spikes of pain up and down his neck, shoulder and torso. He really hated collar bones. Beckett assured him at some point in this early evening that his collar bones, if capable, probably hated him right back.

Sheppard had to admit Carson could get surly if pushed.

And he had been pushed. All of them at some point in their stay in Atlantis had been pushed beyond what they thought they could handle. In the end, they had handled and dealt with the burdens and hardships that had befallen their shoulders and stung their consciences and tested their morals and ethics and survived. They had been pushed physically, mentally and emotionally. Not a single member of the original Atlantis teams had escaped the burden of being an expedition member, an explorer, a friend and a survivor.

Sometimes being the survivor was the hardest part to bear.

But they all bore it, all who had lived to see another day, to bury a friend, grieve for a missing comrade, they had all trudged on and faced one more day. Every last survivor had at some point reached what they perceived to be their limit, reacted to it, handled it and came to the realization that they could handle more one way or another; not because they wanted too, not because it proved they were strong and steadfast, but because they had too.

In order to survive, to continue to face another morning, another crisis, they had to deal with their burdens, whether physical, mental or emotional and put one foot in front of the other and make it through another day.

Burying the dead, Sheppard had come to realize, was a lot tougher than being buried.

He had known Beckett had a fiery temper.

The tooth was comical. The fact Kavanaugh had snapped it made it funnier, the idea of the Doc trying to pull it out himself and dancing around after hitting the nerve with metal was all good and humorous. They had had their fun at Beckett's expense for the last 18 days.

Sheppard had watched the good doctor grow increasingly more tired, more run down due to the constant irritation and unrelenting ache but the Colonel had not seen any hint of the fury that rarely sparked when the Scotsman was truly at the end of his rope.

Tonight had been only a taste of what lay buried beneath the surface.

Sheppard had only seen the fury which rarely burst only months ago. It had flared to life, as Carson stood in the surgery room staring at the empty blood stained gurney that had one time held a good friend who was too mortal. Lieutenant Thomas Finnegan, good friend of Dr. Beckett had died on his surgical table within his reach but out of his skill range.

It hadn't mattered that part of Finny's grey matter rested in his ball cap back in the triage area, or a pint or two of his blood puddled and congealed on the gate room floor.

None of it mattered. Dead was dead. Failure, no matter how excusable was still failure.

There had been no do-overs, no magical ancient devices that would bring back the dead, no last ditch, heroic brain storming that would save a life.

Beckett had lost a patient but worse he had lost a good friend under his fallible hands.

Death had a way of becoming more permanent, excruciatingly more painful when the face had a name and personal attachments.

_Outside the surgery suite window Sheppard had watched Beckett. It was at that time he had seen the vibrant flash of anger and fury in the doctor's eyes. He had watched through the glass as the surgical team left, taking the physical remnants of Lieutenant Thomas Finnegan with them. Sheppard caught a glimpse of the unadulterated anger that lay under the CMO's normally playful exterior. Alone in the surgical room with the empty blood stained gurney, Sheppard watched from outside as Beckett picked up an instrument in blood stained gloved hands and held it. Sheppard had witnessed as Beckett rolled it over and over in his hands until suddenly in an explosive movement and with a guttural growl he hurled it forcibly against the far wall. _

_The retractor ricocheted off the wall, leaving a divot, and careened into the far corner clattering to the floor. _

_Sheppard had made a move to enter the room, not sure what to do, but figured he should do something. He watched Beckett fight a flashing, inferno of anger, frustration and a devastating sense of utter failure. He lost a friend under his hands. McKay had stopped Sheppard by simply shaking his head. _

_They stood side by side and waited as Beckett leaned stiff armed, head bowed, gowned head to toe in surgical scrubs stained with a friend's blood and quietly struggled to gather his composure. And after just a few seconds he straightened, removed his blue cap, his mask, gloves and pulled his gown from around his neck and torso. He took a few deep breaths, ground his teeth against one another, working jaw muscles, skirted the table and picked up the retractor. He had placed it delicately back on the stand and then left the surgical suite to face the friends and comrades of the man he just failed to save. _

It was then that Sheppard realized just how controlled and how near explosive Beckett was capable of becoming. He marveled at the CMOs self discipline, and feared when Carson would finally let go with his anger and strike out.

The same concern Sheppard had had for McKay suddenly leached over to encompass Beckett. How many more people could they stand to lose before they ran the risk of losing the edge that made them practical, gifted geniuses?

Tonight's tavern fight was another stopcock release valve that unloaded building pressures.

Sheppard cringed at the sound of the whirling dental drill and sucked in a pained breath when his bruised and fractured bones and muscles cried in protest.

The Colonel watched as Biro reached for another instrument, the stainless steel catching and reflecting the surgical light in Ronon's direction on the other side of the doorway. The Runner simply turned his head with ease to avoid the stunning glare.

Sheppard curled his lip at the effortlessness in which Ronon had moved and wished that the Runner had snapped a bone or two in this evening's fray. No luck at all. Bruised, not even battered, and a few simple stitches was all Dex had to show for the evenings festivities. Of course, not many people were prone to throwing punches at a man that towered heads above them with hair that seemed as wild as any creature spawned of nightmares. Who in their right mind would take a swing at a monster of man with some archaic, but horribly handy sword strapped to his back?

A surly Scot with a frightfully painful tooth, that's who.

Sheppard turned his attention back Biro, Mitchell and more importantly Beckett.

Earlier this evening, Carson had taken that leap off the narrow shelf of common sense and threw a solid punch at a runner nearly six inches taller than himself. It was Beckett who split Ronon's skin just above the eyebrow. It had been a mistake, a simple reaction to being grabbed by the shoulder from behind during an all out brawl. Dex understood it and Sheppard liked to think that was what kept the Runner from dismantling the doctor. Though at that exact moment in time, Sheppard feared Ronon would have had a bad time of it. He probably would have succeeded but stood a good chance of sustaining damage in the process. Beckett was on a roll and people were falling or staggering back, left and right from his solid hits.

The tavern inhabitants of MX-492-P were no shrinking violets either. They were simple hard working folks making the best living they could working day to day off the land, tending to their small farms and tiny herds of domestic animals. They worked long days tilling fields, clearing forests and tending to their herds. They worked and lived by the very ability and power of their hands and backs. At the end of a painfully long day of drudgery and toil with one day looking like the next day after day, week after week, they found solace and relief in visiting their local watering hole. The hardworking male population lightened their steps when they entered their private oasis. One by one they paused when they lay jaundice eyes on the five strangers already seated at a table near the central fire pit.

With strangers suddenly within their midst, they became suspicious but relished the potential for great entertainment at the expense of the visitors. They unfortunately picked the wrong person for their source of fun and foolery. They left the sharp tongued man with the mouth full of food alone. They eyed the woman in their midst but realized she eyed them back just as steadily but with perhaps a bit more fight in her gaze than they were used too. The dark haired one with the quick smile moved with the grace and dexterity of someone that was best left alone. The tall one with the long tangle of hair and prominent sword appeared as if he wanted something to happen and would welcome it with great zeal. That left the quiet, soft middled one, who had a slight flush to his cheeks and a tired expression on his face. His hands weren't calloused, he was not as tall or quick moving as the others and his eyes did not hold the solid stare of a fighter.

Sheppard remained seated at the table and had seen the patrons size them up; he was aware how their eyes gazed over each of them and then settle on Beckett. He had hoped, erroneously, that the mere presence of himself, Ronon and Teyla and even McKay would keep trouble from erupting.

He had even hoped that Beckett realized he had just been singled out as the target and would act with some common sense and stick close to the team. If the Scotsman had spotted the measuring looks then he hid it well. Carson had left their table to go stand at the bar to facilitate the appearance of their ales. Rodney was making short work of his meal and eying Ronon's. Beckett, though questionably hungry, did not relish invoking the wrath of his tooth any more than currently normal. He hoped to dull it, perhaps even deaden it, with an overdose of alien hops.

Sheppard had shaken his head, not sure if he truly believed the Doc didn't understand the danger he waltzed into when he left the table or if the Doc simply didn't care at the moment. The way Beckett had been growing increasingly more and more silent, Sheppard concluded that Carson really didn't care.

The Colonel, however, did care, with the Daedalus only a few hours from Atlantis and Beckett's tooth only a few hours from being fixed, Sheppard did not want to risk not having all the dominoes fall into place that would eventually lead to Beckett becoming his normal easy going jovial self and Atlantis not on pins and needles trying to avoid invoking the man's frightfully short temper. So with a simple nod of his head, he sent Dex up to the bar with Beckett.

Ronon would keep things calm and Beckett out of trouble and the locals away from his team.

It was like sending the wolf in to watch the coyote in the hen house.

What Sheppard hadn't counted on was someone blatantly challenging Beckett.


	3. Chapter 3

**_I've got to leave for a few days...only 2-3 more parts left to the story. Sorry, but must go torture myself for a day or so._**

**Part 3**

Sheppard had to give the physician credit. When the biggest guy in the tavern pushed Carson out of the way at the bar, Beckett had merely mumbled an apology and stepped aside. When the guy shoved Carson's shoulder forward into the glossy marred bar surface, Sheppard had feared that Beckett would find himself in trouble, however, the Colonel was pleased and relieved to see Beckett smile tightly and offer to get the man an ale.

However, when the giant behemoth pushed his luck and hit Beckett on the right side of the jaw, the very home of his aching, 'no good, rotten, don't need it anyhow', tooth.

Sheppard knew all Hell was going to break loose.

The colonel had even gone so far as to try and stand in hopes to prevent any type of reaction from Beckett which might blow up in the physician's face.

Unfortunately, Sheppard was either too slow or his heart wasn't truly in it, or Beckett was too fast and his heart was truly in it; or any combination there of.

Telya had sucked in a breath.

McKay had paused in eating Ronon's dinner.

The Runner, who leaned against the bar behind Beckett, threw a jovial look to Sheppard and shrugged.

Sheppard had pushed his chair back and started climbing to his feet, hopefully to prevent anyone from being dismembered especially one Scottish physician.

His fears had been ungrounded.

Beckett took the blow without so much as sound. His head had been snapped to the side and almost immediately a protective hand had shot up to his cheek. His face had gone pale except where a reddened hand print now lay, a fine sheen of sweat dotted his features and the strap muscles of his neck stood out a little more as his jaw muscles bulged.

It had been his left hand that was raised to cover his right cheek.

Sheppard realized later, looking back on the incident that had been their first, albeit brief, 'Tornado' siren. The left hand moved. Not the right.

However, it was the look in Carson's startling blue eyes that had Sheppard freezing. There was a flash of anger mixed with the frustration of being pushed too far and with no more room to back up. It was a look of smoldering irritation that had suddenly morphed into a brilliant spark of rage that found an outlet.

Beckett smiled. Thick, off colored blood trickled from the corner of his mouth which he dabbed at with the side of his left index finger. The smile didn't waver and it didn't match the cool calculation in the Scot's eyes.

_Shit._ Sheppard slowly pushed away from the table. The doc was going to get himself killed tonight over a sore thrumming tooth.

The overfed, broad shoulder hulking monstrosity of a woodsman returned a cocky smile of his own; daring the smaller man to do something; anything. He opened his arms inviting a blow and mocking the stranger at the bar all with the same gesture.

The tavern inhabitants watched silently. People wiped their mouths on sleeves. Large gulps of ale were rushed down as eyes became glued on the mismatched two at the bar.

"Carson's going to kill him," McKay muttered without much concern, chewing thoughtfully on something that resembled a chicken wing. He recognized the face of a bully and would harbor no ill will if one was brought to his knees.

Without hesitation and with no visible warning other than, perhaps, a broadening smile, Beckett snapped out a solid right jab.

Sheppard sighed and closed his eyes briefly and slumped slightly in his chair. They were dead men.

Jabs are not known as a powerful strike as far as different types of punches go. Jabs normally set ones opponents up for the more robust cross, or upper cut or even a hook. The snapping, jabbing punches were generally not known for their power or their destructive force. They gave the striker momentum, the chance to position their opponent for the more damaging power hit. It was the 'cross' or the 'upper cut' that held the devastating knockdown force of a punch. Those were the hits that did the most damage, knocked opponents off their feet, took the fight out of people.

Jabs simply worked to irritate and wear down ones opponent, nothing more.

So when Beckett lashed out with a solid snapping right jab, Sheppard for a brief spark of time was unduly concerned for the physician's safety, fearing that the Scot had only managed to annoy his opposition, which stood taller and much heavier than Beckett.

Sheppard's concern was unfounded.

His apprehension took a suddenly very steep climb and a different direction.

The tavern fell deathly silent when the biggest fellow in the Tavern, the very one Beckett hit with a simple 'setup' jab, staggered back a half step with a confused expression. He weaved in place, slacked jawed. Blood ran from one nostril into a bushy mustache. He teetered for a moment. His knees then buckled and he unceremoniously melted to the floor face first, like a felled tree, unconscious.

Sheppard realized two very important, tactical pieces of information. One: Beckett was as powerful as he looked; and two: they had trouble on their hands.

Their trouble was solidified as fact when McKay muttered, "Why does stupid always come in extra large?"

"Shut up, McKay," The Colonel muttered.

"Me? I'm not the one who knocked out that brainless sap," Rodney snapped back without truly lowering his voice, "Carson did; yell at him."

Chairs creaked and wood was scraped as people pushed back their chairs, put down their ales and stood up.

McKay started pocketing food.

Teyla gathered her weapons.

Ronon smiled like a proud uncle.

Beckett turned back to the room, dismissing them and facing the barkeep, expecting his ale to arrive. He muttered none to quietly about daft fools, glass jaws and not knowing one's limits. He quietly patted the bar with an open palm gently urging the barkeep to move and grant him a pint.

Sheppard wasn't sure if Beckett intentionally worked to add insult or not to the inhabitants of this little tavern by turning his back to the room and thus dismissing them, or if he truly just didn't care, or believed the rest of SGA-1 would watch his back. Which, of course, they would.

Sheppard figured it was a combination of all three or perhaps the doc was finally pushing back, possibly striking out in his own manner.

The colonel sighed, maybe he'd try and get the doc into the gym to work off some aggressions, it would be safer for Carson at least.

The tavern regulars interpreted it as an insult.

Sheppard swore under his breath and decided that the shit would hit the proverbial fan with or without his participation. He was more than willing to let Ronon and Beckett handle it. They were big boys and could handle themselves---hopefully.

Sheppard settled back in his chair and watched as Ronon turned and leaned against the bar surface keeping his shoulder adjacent to Beckett's back and faced the room with his elbows and forearms against the bar top.

Sheppard picked up his ale and leaned back in his chair content to watch events unfold.

Apparently the biggest guy in the tavern also had a lot of friends or family or both. Or perhaps it was truly universal across different galaxies that 'regulars' routinely don't like 'outsiders'. And any excuse to trade punches, insults and toss bodies was a good enough excuse to bring down the house.

The brawl was spectacular in its intense, destructive force, the number of bodies involved and its brevity. For a short while it was just Beckett versus the rest of the tavern, hell it might have been the rest of the planet as far as Sheppard was concerned.

It had seemed as if all the loss, fear, frustration and failure over the pass year had found an outlet; not to mention 18 days of a throbbing broken tooth with an exposed raw nerve, that kept him from eating regularly, sleeping uninterrupted or drinking anything other than lukewarm beverages.

Beckett wasn't pretty when he fought. Sheppard recognized that right off, the guy had no finesse, no fancy moves. What he did have was power, balance and agility and he didn't fear getting in close on his opponents. He didn't restrict himself to using just his hands, or his feet. His forehead snapped many noses and cheeks that night. And he fought dirty, a survival tactic they had honed since coming to Atlantis.

Neither the Wraith nor the Genii fought fair. They fought to kill. They fought to survive. And though Beckett thankfully recognized the difference between what they fought for on Atlantis versus what he fought for here, in this small backwater tavern, the power and skill were the same though the intent was entirely different.

He was a survivor just like the surrounding members of the SGA-1 team.

Ronon and Sheppard were content to let the physician go. McKay waffled between wanting to help and not wanting to get hit.

Getting hit and doing the hitting both hurt. However, being the hitter versus being the hittee was the lesser of two evils and Rodney was pretty sure where he would fall if he were to engage in Beckett's current asocial behavior.

Sheppard's job had been to keep everyone safe, make sure no one pulled a weapon and keep it a nice friendly fight. He and McKay had continued to enjoy their ale and finger foods, suspiciously similar to fried cheese sticks and watched the ruckus around them. They occasionally had to lean left or right to avoid a sailing body, or pick up their mugs and plates of food when a patron slid across their table. A few times saw them picking up their feet when a patron rolled passed.

Teyla had wanted to jump in an aid Dr. Beckett, however, Sheppard dissuaded her, pointing out that this was therapeutic. Rodney went so far to say that Carson needed to lighten up a little, he'd been tense lately, this was just as good as anything Heightmeyer would have to offer.

Ronon remained on his feet and leaned against the bar drinking his ale and watched the frackus with a touch of prideful glee. He and Beckett were on the same team, so to speak. When a body stumbled in his direction he merely laid them out with a simple quick strategic strike and kept them down with a heavy foot to their chest or backs.

When things began to escalate and Beckett began to obviously struggle, Sheppard had intended to stand up. However, he noticed Rodney reaching for the last 'cheese stick' and so Sheppard felt compelled to sit back down and beat the astrophysicist to the food. He did yell a suggestion to Ronon about helping out the Doc.

Rodney beat Sheppard to the last cheese stick but paused in eating it, which resulted in him losing it to the Colonel.

McKay's eyes remained glued on Beckett and the monstrosity that loomed behind him. Ronon was busy with a few misguided individuals of his own. When a chair was broken over Beckett's shoulders and the Scotsman fell to one knee under a crush of bodies, McKay's waffling disappeared and the astrophysicist flew from his chair without so much as an adieu. In fact, McKay was diving into the fray before Ronon or Sheppard had a chance to react. Teyla quietly gathered impromptu fighting sticks and delicately inserted herself into the melee.

Sheppard swore a thousand promises of painful death upon McKay when he witnessed the Canadian boldly jump into the thick of things but seemed to hold his own amazingly well. The man had no sense of self preservation at times.

_Damn Scientists._


	4. Chapter 4

_**Still far from home; bear with me.**_

**Part 4**

The science types continuously surprised Sheppard.

McKay once again proved that he was not only a steadfast loyal friend, when not thinking too hard about it, and that he had some skill in self defense, when again, he was not actively engaging the conscious part of his brain. When McKay worked solely on instinct he had the ability to survive.

It was with some zeal that Ronon truly joined the fight with Teyla happily using broken chair legs as fighting sticks. Sheppard was content to let his team go and sit back and 'direct' their duties without truly becoming engaged in the fisticuffs. His plans fell short when McKay found himself between two 'sawed off' heavily muscled farmers that thought the astrophysicist made a great punching bag.

With a sigh and an air of great reluctance, the Colonel wove his way delicately between combatants, twisting left and right trying not to touch anyone and get dragged into the melee prematurely. The Colonel shook his head and muttered something derogatory about scientists and amateurs. He made his way over to Rodney passing Beckett on the way. The Colonel left him with an encouraging word and suggested he keep his right up to protect his tooth better.

Beckett shot him glare through a swelling eye and continued on his one man rampage. Aching tooth and all.

Sheppard finally reached McKay and insinuated himself between the two heavily muscled men that appeared to be either twins or otherwise closely related.

Perhaps the family tree did not branch much on this planet. Perhaps it was just a stump.

In the end, Sheppard extricated McKay from his difficulties and found a few of his own.

The Colonel was on the receiving end of a bar stool across the back much like Beckett had, but Sheppard lacked the meat to protect underlying bones and ligaments. McKay dove after the farmer not much taller than himself who now only held the round seated remnant of the stool. The combatants traded blows, fire arms remained holstered. Bodies flew haphazardly over tables and across the bar. The floor became slick with sweat, blood, spit and ale.

In just a few moments, the fighters became winded, arms leadened, and legs shaky. Deep gulping breaths hauled in lungs full of humid fetid air which smelled of sweat, greasy food and beer. Regulars moaned as they lay sprawled across their wooded floor amongst furniture fragments and food detris.

The Lanteans remained standing. Those from Earth listed left and right or remained bent over hands resting on knees dragging in great draughts of heated air.

Ronon and Teyla surveyed the damage and found the threat level minimal.

Beckett made a move to start tending to the injured spewed about the floor but Ronon grabbed his shoulder to stop him. It was then Dex found himself on the receiving end of a similar snapping jab that had laid out numerous other patrons.

It barely knocked Ronon's head back an inch maybe two but not much else and split the skin.

Dex merely smiled and gently pushed the sputtering, apologizing, physician toward the bar and away from those he wanted to tend.

Beckett, leaning against the bar, nodded agreeably to the barkeep who slid him a cautious pint. The Scot delicately nursed the ale trying his best to keep the fluid from touching his broken tooth. He tilted his head sideways and covered the tooth with his weary tongue which now threatened to cramp with each passing day. Blood flowed freely from one nostril and he soaked the knuckles of one hand in split ale on the bar top.

Teyla wiped sweat from her unmarred brow with the back of her hand. Her breaths came a little more rapidly than normal and a fine sheen of sweat dotted her forearms and shoulders.

Ronon held a cloth to his head and leaned against the bar shoulder to shoulder with Carson sipping on his own ale.

Apparently no harm no foul.

The colonel wiped his bleeding nose against the back of his hand and tested the sensitive tissue of his grossly swelling and cut lip with his tongue. He stared at the Runner with a jaundiced eye.

Sheppard figured Ronon escaped relatively unscathed because in order for anyone to truly smack him in the jaw, they'd have to practically jump up to do it. And looking at the size of the man and the very feral nature of his expression, most people, even tavern regulars would realize what a wasted effort it would be to try and take down someone built like a wall and with the attitude of---well a Scotsman with a sore tooth.

The tavern regulars apparently had a great deal of common sense when it came to facing Ronon Dex, runner extraordinaire. However, they exhibited a parallel lack of common sense with Carson, when it came to leaving well enough alone. Where Carson took a somewhat successful swing at Ronon, and survived, only by the good graces of the runner himself; the tavern regulars had continued to take swings and land punches at the irate Scotsman despite the fact that the red faced, snarled lipped highlander answered strike for strike with more efficiency and power than anyone who took a swing at him.

Sheppard figured they had just been caught up in the moment.

After a few moments of sipping their drinks and collecting their gear, the group decided it was with-in everyone's best interest if they left.

The team limped toward the stout thick wooded door, muttering, belly aching and dabbing blood from various parts of their bodies

The bar keep paused in wiping down the bar top and had asked them not to come back, and if they did return could they please leave behind the mean tempered one with the funny speech. Beckett solemnly promised to leave McKay at home should they ever decide to visit again. He took a final sip of ale before resting the glass on a teetering table near the door. He grimaced as the lukewarm liquid hit his tooth and muttered the now familiar curses of his ancestors.

They left behind a single room full of moaning bodies, broken windows, and shattered furniture.

And hence, SGA-1 and Dr. Carson Beckett, became embroiled in a bar brawl to rival any destruction seen on that planet that was non-Wraith related.

The walk back to the gate had not been much easier or any more pleasant, but they were determined to make it back. Well, most of them were pushing their best for DHD. One of them had an appointment with a specialist brought in on the Daedalus and dragged his feet accordingly.

The others kept a shuffling slightly zigzagging pace, but worked to ensure there was no chance of him missing it---They after all, 'left no one behind'.

What a night.

Sheppard continued to lean against the infirmary wall, wishing he was back in his quarters sleeping this whole incident away. Instead, he found himself in close proximity to another potentially explosive situation.

Beckett moved his leg again, this time he bent his right leg with more alacrity and coordination and his right hand fisted while his left hand started to move. His right foot gained purchase on the lower part of the nearly horizontally reclined chair.

Sheppard stepped away from the wall and delicately dropped his good arm. From the corner of his eye he saw Ronon push away from his wall and also step forward.

The doc might not come with built-in tsunami sirens but he did give his own set of warning signals.

Beckett put more pressure on his right foot while his right arm moved upward to the back of Biro and toward his head. His butt left the seat as he twisted slightly putting more weight onto his shoulders. His left leg bent and found purchase next to the right one. Beckett held the position for only moment before raising his left knee closer to his chest.

"I think you better give him more happy gas," Sheppard warned as he took another step forward.

Mitchell kept working; Biro hesitated and kept her eyes on the cut and bruised knuckles of Beckett's left hand.

Beckett's feet had yet to slip from the bottom of the seat. The Colonel watched as the CMOs upper legs flexed and tensed under the beige heavy material of his medical uniform.

"We're almost done," Mitchell muttered still concentrating on his work, ignoring the smoldering explosion that puffed out small warnings with every tense muscle and flinch.

Beckett's left hand reached up behind Mitchell, fingers flexing and unflexing as if trying to find coordination and garner strength.

"I think---" The colonel tried again, keeping his tone pleasant but hoping to convey a sense of urgency and warning as he sidled up to the right of the chair behind Biro.

Beckett rolled his head to the right, away from the light that glared down on him from above and way from the fingers and instruments that crowded his open mouth.

"Not yet, Dr. Beckett, you need to hold still," Mitchell muttered and gripped Carson's bruised jaw and turned his head back to the light.

_Shit. _

Sheppard took another step forward with Ronon on the opposite side as Beckett squarely planted his right foot on the bottom of the chair and snapped his head vigorously to the right with a weak groan. His left knee rushed toward his chest as both hands shot up blind to protect his mouth. Instead his right hand found the back of Biro's gown and gnarled it into his fist nearly dragging the smaller woman off her feet.

"Back off, Mitchell," Sheppard hissed.

Beckett snapped his head left and right and tried to raise it off the head rest. The severe tilt of the chair and gravity were against him, making the movement unduly difficult. The black rubber nose cone that fed light anesthetic slipped to the side.

"Easy, Carson," Biro quietly intoned unconcerned that Beckett had her blue surgical gown tightly twisted in his fist and his back slightly arched off the chair, "Sarah, increase the flow again," the pathologist ordered as she placed the nose mask back in place and held it there, following the sluggish movement of Beckett's head.

"Colonel," Biro spoke calmly without turning her head but held a needle covered partially filled syringe toward Sheppard. "Inject this into the IV port in the back of his hand---it's just a sedative."

Sheppard took the needle and syringe and carefully injected it into the yellow/tan IV capped catheter. The orange of surgical soap stained the bruised skin under the clear tap that held it in place.

"Don't recap the needle," Biro took the offered needle and syringe and gave Sheppard a second one, "It's simply a flush to clear the line."

"We're almost done," Mitchell snapped, "if we work faster---"

"Dr. Beckett doesn't deserve to have to feel or deal with any of this," Biro spoke softly but the steel in her tone easily conveyed her immoveable stance. "You can work as quickly as you want when he's ready."

Sheppard stepped back. He stood just at the foot of the chair and watched as the fist that had snared Biro's gown slowly started to relax. The pathologist turned slightly and with her free hand, carefully eased Beckett's semi lax fist out of the surgical gown and back to his side. His feet lost their purchase on the chair and slowly slid out straight again with the toes of his sneakers pointing in opposite directions. He settled heavily back into the chair. Beckett tried moving his right foot to no avail. His muscles lost their tension and his quadriceps relaxed as knees straightened out.

Sheppard watched as Beckett's breathing deepened and his ribs expanded and contracted in a lazy fashion pulling his thorax and cranial abdomen up and apart with each deep breath. His abdomen fell heavily below the costal arch of his rib cage with each heavy exhale.

"That's it Carson," Biro soothed, "nice deep breathes." She looked to the monitors behind the anesthetic machine and nodded her approval at the numbers and patterns that blipped by with rapid but constant results. She patted his shoulder, stripping off her gloves and reaching for another pair.

From his angle, Sheppard watched the tension leach from Beckett's neck and the determined look that had captured his eyes only moments before bled away to a half hooded dull expression.

The deep breaths continued until finally what little tension that had still knotted his muscles was sapped from his body and he slid deeper into the chair.

Biro rested an ungloved hand on Beckett's chest and waited a moment peering slightly sideways at her boss. "You okay, Carson?"

A lazy grunt and a slightly shifted foot was her only answer.

The pathologist nodded quietly to herself, pleased with the response, and patted his chest in reassurance.

"Shall we continue?" she asked not bothering to look at Mitchell as she snapped on her surgical gloves. She handed him another instrument, silently commanding him to finish the job.

Sheppard shared a look with Ronon. The runner smirked and both stepped back against the wall and watched and waited.

Biro could handle herself. They didn't need to be here.

They weren't here for Carson's sake. Not really, though if it eased the Scotsman's mind then it was a plus, chances were their presence made it worse for him. However, Sheppard figured the only thing that was going to make Carson happy was having the tooth disappear altogether. Ronon and Sheppard were here to keep Biro and Mitchell safe. The tooth wasn't going to disappear, but the root canal, infection and crown needed to be dealt with in one fell swoop over the next few days. The Daedalus was only here for a finite amount of time.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Home now, here is the rest of the story. Thanks tons for all the feedback. I apologize for not responding to the reviews individually like normal, but pipes are frozen, trough andwater buckets are frozen, my world now consists of thick unbreakable ice. Thanks again for taking the time to write reviews and drop notes. Its greatly appreciated. _**

**Part 5**

An hour later, Biro reached up and pulled her surgical mask down with powdered patched hands, visual remnants of her latex gloves. "Gentlemen, if you could help us get Carson here onto a bed I'd appreciate it."

Mitchell turned away from the chair, tossing his gloves and mask to the ground and stormed from the small 'dirty' surgery room. He did not appreciate working under these conditions with people that did not respect his skill and abilities with the accolades he deserved.

Sheppard watched him go without too much sympathy. Biro had been here from the beginning. She was one of the few survivors, one of the originals. She earned her right to be here, she defended this place and the others as much as everyone else.

Mitchell could take his attitude and ego and go back to the Daedalus. Sheppard really didn't care; as long as Beckett's tooth was fixed. If it wasn't, then Sheppard and a contingent of marines would go and march Mitchell right off the Daedalus and make sure he fixed it right the second time.

The colonel stepped forward not looking forward to helping Carson move anywhere. Heavily bruised ribs and an aching collar bone that did not like leaning against a wall would not embrace lugging Beckett's stout frame across the infirmary into a bed.

"I see you've worked your magic again, Colonel, if Mitchell is anything to judge by," McKay muttered careful not to move his jaw too much as he spoke the room having passed Mitchell in the hall.

"I didn't do anything," Sheppard answered back slightly peeved.

"Now there's a surprise," McKay retaliated, "this evenings festivities would attest to that."

"Stow it, McKay," The colonel answered.

Biro sighed and shook her head, "Colonel Sheppard, please, let's get Carson here to a bed," the pathologist nodded her head to Beckett who slouched in the now partially upright chair. He stared at them with glazed but slightly un-amused glare.

"The colonel here is just about useless," McKay opinioned.

Sheppard gave the astrophysicist a put upon look, "I am not useless," he felt the need to clarify, though at the moment he didn't think he'd able to bend down and pick up a tooth brush if he had too.

"Of course not," McKay muttered, "you were just a paragon of help back in that tavern Carson so readily destroyed with the help of those Neanderthals."

"Hey, he needed to work off some steam," Sheppard declared, "besides he didn't start it. They did," The colonel grinned, "but we ended it."

"Oh yes, the military to the rescue again," McKay retorted as he sidled up next to the now nearly vertical chair. "Carson?"

Beckett let his head settle heavy back into the head rest of the chair and stared in Sheppard's direction with heavy eyelids.

"Carson, lets go," McKay ordered.

The 'No' was muffled but the lethargic defiance was clearly audible.

"Oh great," McKay muttered.

"Come on, little man," Dex smiled, "we can get him to a bed,"

They each grabbed an arm and pulled Beckett to unsteady feet with knees that gave like rubber bands, "Oh, no you don't, Carson," McKay huffed and quickly tightened his grip on Beckett's upper arm, copying Ronon's movement.

The group staggered and swayed for the doors.

"Carson, pick up your feet," McKay ordered with exasperation, gripping Beckett's arm tighter. Carson dragged his feet a little more, scuffing the toes of his shoes with more zeal. Ronon simply cinched his grip on the doctor more securely and urged a little more cooperation.

Beckett responded with a muffled cotton garbled protest and unsuccessfully tried to free his upper arm.

"Some people just shouldn't do drugs," Rodney stated, "he's so going to owe me for this."

Together the threesome staggered from the small dirty surgery room out into the main floor of the infirmary and headed for the bed just tucked out of the way with Biro standing next to it.

"Don't you have a bed more inconveniently out of the way?" Rodney grumbled, readjusting his grip on Carson's arm. "Maybe the East Pier?"

Sheppard followed behind gleefully offering advice and needling McKay with every step.

In a few moments, Rodney and Ronon eased Beckett back onto the infirmary bed. As Dex lifted the doctor's sneakered feet up onto the bed, Carson groggily sat up, swinging his feet stubbornly toward the floor.

McKay sighed and rubbed delicately at his bruised and swollen cheek, "No Carson, lay back down, you've done enough damage for one night."

Beckett grumbled and sat slouched on the side of the bed. He raised his head lightly and dragged his eyes from McKay to Sheppard. He stared at the colonel through blood shot half hooded eyes.

"Doc, I didn't do anything," Sheppard defended. He smiled reassuringly silently reminding himself he was the chief military officer of Atlantis. He could handle an out of sorts scientist. Hell, he dealt with Rodney every day.

"Why don't you lie down and sleep it off," Sheppard encouraged with the intention of helping Beckett lay back down.

Beckett twisted his shoulder away from the touch and grumbled, conveying his intense desire to be left alone without actually articulating anything.

"He is still disagreeable," Ronon noted.

"Imagine," Rodney muttered, "a few hours drugged to the gills in a dentist chair and us staring at him like a circus freak side show hasn't improved his disposition." McKay looked to Beckett who stared back at him with a jaundice glare.

"Perhaps Dr. Beckett, it would be best if you just lay down," Teyla tried to reason with a soft placating smile.

The CMO scowled at McKay.

"Not that way," Biro warned, "Dr. Beckett, sir, you should take your jacket off," the pathologist suggested as she signaled to one of the nurses.

Sheppard scrutinized Rodney's building frustration as the astrophysicist watched Beckett's uncoordinated movements in trying to remove his own coat without much success.

The colonel silently counted off the time before McKay's impatience with what he perceived to be incompetence ran out and he stepped forward to do the job himself.

Sheppard reached nine.

With an exasperated sigh, McKay stepped forward unable to witness any more fruitless action that would not reach the desired results or any results.

Biro smiled rocking slightly back on her heels. Sheppard slid a glance at her and cocked an eyebrow at her knowing grin as she accepted two white blankets from a nurse.

"Carson, you make a horrible patient," McKay stated as he attempted to pull the sleeve free while Beckett twitched his arm forward and backward trying to get loose of whatever yanked on him. "Hold still," Rodney muttered working the coat free. "You're worse than the Colonel." McKay took the jacket and tossed it at Ronon. "Now lay down."

"No," Beckett mumbled and rubbed at the side of his head, messing his hair with a heavy hand.

"Here you go, Carson," Biro slid in on the far side of the bed and draped a heated white blanket over her boss's shoulders.

Beckett wrapped it tightly around himself with fumbling hands and seemed to curl even further forward.

"Okay gentleman, now that Carson is taken care of," as Biro spoke Beckett leaned to the side laying down and dragging his legs up onto the bed. The second warmed blanket was draped over the bottom half of his body. After a moment he simply buried deeper into the blankets and slowly relaxed.

The pathologist shook her head, "Heated blankets works every time," She smiled smugly at the others. "Mr. Dex could you please remove Carson's shoes---thank you," Biro stared at Sheppard, "is there anything else I can do for you or your team, Colonel?" The hint to leave was clearly discernable.

The sound of a sneaker hitting the floor thudded in the near background followed by a second.

"What're ya gonna do with him next?" Sheppard's shoulder ached miserably and he almost envied Beckett, his warm blanket and dark secluded part of the infirmary.

"We'll keep him quiet for the night," Biro sighed, "start again first thing in the morning." Biro sighed tiredly, "Hopefully, we will be seeing the beginnings of brighter mornings soon."

"If we're lucky," Sheppard muttered.

"Mitchell, going to be doing the work again?" Ronon leaned against the foot of Beckett's bed with his arms crossed.

Biro sighed despondently, "Yes."

"Best let us know when," Sheppard suggested.

"Yes, yes, let's make sure we all know, so we can be in the middle of another harrowing rendition of Scotland's finest hour: William Wallace meets King Edward I---I personally don't have enough bruises or aches to be satisfied." McKay cupped a gentle hand around the area of his swollen cheek bone.

"Oh come on, McKay, what happened back in the tavern isn't going to happen here. Carson's a professional, so is Mitchell," Sheppard offered, "they'll be alright, they'll work together---right---Dr. Biro?" The colonel looked over to the pathologist.

"Dr. Beckett doesn't embrace the dental side of medicine," Biro offered with as neutral a response as she could and still agree with Dr. McKay.

"Gee, what gave you that idea?" Rodney sneered back, "Could it have been when he tried to pull his own tooth out?"

Sheppard cringed and stared warily at Beckett who slept oblivious, his down cheek full of gauze rolls.

Biro offered McKay a twisted impatient smile, "Actually, no, it was when he agreed to go off world with you bunch of accident prone HMO nightmares, after he learned that the Daedalus had the good fortune of bringing an oral surgeon and team here for the scheduled yearly visit."

"Contact us," Ronon pushed himself away from the bed and dropped his arms, "McKay and I will be there." With that Dex nodded to the three people and took his leave.

"What? Why me?" McKay stuttered, "I'm injured you know, fractured cheek."

"Hairline, McKay," Sheppard corrected, "and they had to use a special light to see the defect in the first place. And it certainly hasn't kept you quiet."

"Fracture is a fracture," McKay retorted, "why don't you be here?"

Sheppard smiled, "I plan on it," he turned to Biro, "just contact one of us," he looked back down to Beckett who slept peaceably with his mouth slightly ajar and hint of cotton showing. He turned back to Biro, "We'll be here---Come on, McKay, let's leave the nice doctor alone."

"Nice doctor?" McKay started out after Sheppard, "who the Hell would that be? Carson's sleeping, and let me tell you he's been nothing but a bear the past few weeks. Biro's just keeping her circular saw warm probably can't wait to take my brain out and study it."

"Sure McKay, sure," Sheppard's reply was cut off as the infirmary doors closed behind them.

Biro sighed and stared down at her boss, "You've got some bizarre friends Carson, good but bizarre."

The end.


End file.
